


Till Thy Wound be Thoroughly Heal'd

by Crowgirl, Kivrin



Series: On the Strength of the Evidence [30]
Category: Grantchester (TV)
Genre: Consensual Infidelity, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Major Illness, Psychological Trauma, Unconventional Families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-26 12:22:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10786680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kivrin/pseuds/Kivrin
Summary: ‘Been so long since I had a cold... thought I’d just forgotten. How miserable it is.’





	1. Chapter 1

Sidney resists the urge to pull the telephone away from his ear and stare at it, instead saying, ‘I’m sorry -- I don’t think I caught -- Can you--’

Atkins sighs from the other end of the phone. ‘I know it sounds -- but the Inspector -- he won’t listen to anyone else.’ Sidney can picture his expression, the same one he wore when he let Sidney leave the station with a police file no civilian should have had. He’d been trying to help Geordie then, too.

‘Have you tried his wife?’ Sidney looks down at Dickens, sitting on the mat at his feet, and the dog blinks happily up at him, whapping his tail against the floor. 

‘She’s not answering the phone.’ 

That, at least, makes sense; what with Davie teething, he knows Cathy has fallen into the habit of sleeping whenever she can. And last week first Dora, and then Ivy, and finally Esme had taken turns waking up in the small hours with feverish colds. The Keatings hadn’t even come out to the vicarage on Sunday for Easter dinner because Esme still had an earache. At this point, Cathy could likely sleep through a Luftwaffe raid. 

‘Look, I -- I know this sounds barmy and I wouldn’t be calling you but --’ Atkins hesitates then sighs again. He sounds much more human, somehow, when he speaks again. ‘He’s going to make himself really ill and he won’t listen to any of us.’

That certainly sounds like Geordie. Between Sidney’s responsibilities during Holy Week and a rash of vandalism incidents keeping Geordie tied to the station, they haven’t seen each other for ten days, or even spoken since he rang up on Sunday to say they couldn’t come for dinner. He’d sounded tired and frustrated… but not worse than that, or had he? 

_Would I even have noticed,_ Sidney wonders now, with the choir’s enthusiastic, if somewhat ragged, Hallelujah chorus still ringing in his ears?

Sidney puts the cap back on his pen. ‘I can be there in half an hour. Don’t let him go out on any calls.’ 

* * *

Sidney doesn’t knock, just eases Geordie’s office door open. The room smells like stale smoke, rather than fresh, and Geordie’s hunched over an open file, his head propped up on one hand. 

‘I don’t need any bloody tea, I don’t want any bloody tea, bugger off.’

‘Good thing I’m not bringing you any bloody tea, then,’ Sidney says.

Geordie raises his eyes, then drops them and rubs his forehead. ‘Then just bugger off.’

‘I’m taking you home.’

‘I’m working, Sidney, most of us have to more than one day a... a week...’ The sentence trails off as Geordie gropes for a crumpled handkerchief that’s lying on the desk. When he sneezes it almost rattles the windows, but it’s the half-swallowed grunt afterwards, and the quickly-halted movement towards rubbing his side, that sets Sidney’s own chest aching. 

‘How much have you gotten done this morning?’

‘I...' Geordie looks at the papers before him for a moment, flips a page back and forth, and says nothing, setting his elbows on the desk on either side of the open file. 

‘How much of what you’ve gotten done do you _remember_?’ Sidney crosses the room and shoves the window open; the stale smoke is making his eyes burn. When he turns back, his eye is caught by the nearly overflowing wastebin Geordie has tucked behind the corner of the desk. 

As he turns to look at it, Geordie sees his movement and shifts to kick the bin under his desk. ‘Aye, well, that’s not been emptied--’

Sidney is on one knee before he can finish, dragging the bin back out to confirm what he saw, then dropping it with a harsh clang as he glares up at Geordie. ‘ _Blood_ , Geordie. You’re coughing up _blood_.’

Geordie at least has the grace to look sheepish. ‘Don’t shout. It looks like more than it is.’

‘You can walk out of here with me now or you can leave on a stretcher in half an hour. Your choice.’

Geordie tries to sigh and coughs instead. ‘You’re being--’

‘Atkins called me. You think I won’t call the ambulance?’ Sidney kicks the bin back under the desk with unnecessary force and crosses his arms. At this point, he feels angry enough to pick Geordie up and simply _carry_ him out of the station.

‘I--’ Geordie is cut off by another round of coughing that leaves him doubled over in the chair, handkerchief pressed to his mouth.

‘Christ, Geordie -- _please_ \--’ Sidney puts a hand on his shoulder and can feel the shift of muscle as Geordie presses an arm over his abdomen.

Slowly, Geordie straightens up, nodding. His face has gone paper-white and he isn’t moving the handkerchief away from his lips. His breath is coming in an audible rasp and Sidney’s own throat aches to hear it.

‘Where are the car keys?’ Sidney asks. His hands are steady - they’ll shake later when this runs over and over in his mind muddled up with Sandy and all the other scenes from the war that he tries not to think about. He follows Geordie’s pointing finger to the overcoat and riffles the pockets. 

‘Spit it out and throw the hanky away,’ he says as he turns around, keys in hand, and Geordie is still sitting as he was, the handkerchief pressed to his mouth. ‘You can have mine for the ride.’

‘Mrs Maguire’ll have your liver,’ Geordie says indistinctly, but balls up the cloth and drops it in the bin without further comment. 

‘I’m not planning on taking it back.’ Sidney fishes the square out of his pocket and thrusts it at Geordie.

Geordie braces his hands on the desk and pushes himself to his feet. He pauses for a moment, clearly testing his balance, and swallows another cough. After a moment, he takes a deep breath and shakes his head, then looks up at Sidney. ‘I can drive meself--’

Sidney doesn’t even bother to answer, but waits until Geordie shuffles around the corner of the desk and drops his coat over his shoulder. The weather’s warm enough that it won’t make much of a difference one way or the other, but if Geordie is as feverish as he looks the extra layer might feel good. ‘How on earth did you get Cathy to let you out of the house?’

Geordie’s shrugging slowly into his coat. ‘Didn’t tell her.’

‘Oh, for--’

‘She was asleep, man!’ Geordie pulls the fronts of his coat together, then seems to realise this is a terrible admission, and lets them go, shoving both hands into his pockets. ‘We were both up with Davie last night and I --’ He lets the sentence trail off and shrugs.

Sidney feels suddenly overwhelmingly tired. ‘You didn’t sleep, did you.’

‘It’s... rough when I lie down,’ Geordie mutters. ‘I dozed a bit.’

‘In a kitchen chair. In a draft. Probably. Christ our _savior,’_ Sidney adds through gritted teeth. ‘Tell me the car’s close, at least.’ 

‘First spot out the side door.’

When they come out into the passage Atkins is watching but he nods and becomes very interested in the stack of files he’s carrying when Sidney motions over Geordie’s bent head for him to stay out of sight. The message seems to be passed by some silent telegraph and on their slow progress they meet no one at all but an ostentatiously disinterested desk sergeant.

Geordie grunts in protest when Sidney opens the passenger door for him, then says ‘Don’t grind the gears,’ as Sidney adjusts the driving mirrors. He sinks back in the seat taking rough, shallow breaths. ‘Said you were taking me home,’ he adds without opening his eyes when Sidney makes a turn off the High Street.

‘That was when I thought you were being a bloody fool and not...’ Words fail Sidney; he leaves the sentence unfinished and presses on. ‘Hospital, then we’ll see.’

* * *

When they arrive at the hospital, a nurse hustles Geordie beyond some swinging doors and leaves Sidney to his own devices in a barren, unoccupied waiting room. There are a dozen or so chairs cushioned in a particularly unpleasant shade of pink vinyl standing around the walls and three large windows with Venetian blinds rolled up halfway. He takes up a position by the window and juggles the car keys from hand to hand until he realises he’s irritating himself with their jingle and makes himself stop.

‘Mr Chambers?’

He turns around and the doctor blinks. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Reverend Chambers.’

Sidney bites back the temptation to snap and tries to summon up a smile. ‘Please; don’t worry about it.’

‘The nurse tells me you brought Mr Keating in.’

‘Yes. He was hardly in a fit state to drive himself.’

‘No, I should say not. I trust you’re aware of his previous injury?’

Sidney grits his teeth. ‘I was there for it.’

‘Ah. Well, then, you can imagine that pneumonia is more or less the last thing he needs right now.’

Sidney barely manages to bite back the profanity. ‘He has pneumonia?’

‘Almost. He’s certainly done himself no good at all sitting up, to say nothing of the persistent cough. He’s broken at least one blood vessel in his throat -- I’m fairly sure he hasn’t re-opened anything around the gunshot wound.’

Sidney realises his expression must have changed when the doctor’s eyes narrow and he clears his throat, very obviously changing tack. ‘In any case, at this point there’s no option for him other than bed rest.’

‘For how long?’

‘At least two weeks. Perhaps longer.’

‘He’s going to hate that,’ Sidney says, seizing on this detail to keep the phrases _re-opened anything_ and _fairly sure_ from repeating in his mind _._ ‘Another two weeks in hospital...’

‘If he’ll comply - and there are people to look after him - he could spend most of it in bed at home. Right now we’re trying to keep the bleeding from starting again, but if the codeine controls the cough and especially if whatever we’ve cultured from him responds to sulfa, he might be better off in familiar surroundings. But only if...’

‘He’ll stay in bed.’ Sidney nods. ‘May I see him?’ 

The doctor nods. ‘For a few minutes. We’ve put him in an oxygen tent and there’s a drip going, so don’t be alarmed by those.’

The doctor walks Sidney down the hall and pauses at the door as if to speak, then hesitates.

‘They have small children. His wife -- wasn’t able to leave them at short notice,’ Sidney says, guessing at the most likely query. ‘I’ll ’phone her as soon as I’ve spoken to Geordie.’ 

The doctor nods. ‘Perhaps the hospital will be the best place for him, then. Small children are hardly restful.’

It’s a fair point, Sidney thinks, forcing himself to focus on the minutiae of the question as he pushes open the door. Making himself think about how a room in the Keatings’ house could be reliably child-proofed keeps him on his feet when he sees Geordie.

 _It’s not that bad, it’s not that bad, it’s not that bad_ , he repeats to himself, making a chant out of it as he crosses the room and stands by the head of the bed.

Geordie cracks open an eye and peers up at him. ‘You look like _you_ should be the one in here.’ His voice is oddly hollow against the sheeting of the oxygen tent and Sidney takes a deep breath to keep from retching.

‘Spent quite enough time in one, thanks.’ He reaches out and touches the metal rod that supports the top of the thing and can’t keep himself from shuddering. Sidney stuffs his hand back in his pocket and hopes Geordie hasn’t noticed. 

It seems that he hasn’t because Geordie makes no comment, just closes his eye and lets out a long, unsteady breath. ‘Seems like I’m going to be stuck in this one meself.’

‘That’s what you get for over-doing it all the time.’

‘Didn’t want to whinge.’ Geordie murmurs. ‘Been so long since I had a cold... thought I’d just forgotten. How miserable it is.’

‘Well, as a general rule, with a cold you can stand up and don’t spit blood.’

‘I’ll make a note.’ Geordie smiles wryly. 

There’s a stool, probably for staff use only, but Sidney pulls it up to the bed and sits down. He takes Geordie’s hand and bends his head in what he hopes looks, from the doorway, like prayer. ‘You bastard,’ he says conversationally.

‘I’m sorry.’ Geordie turns his hand over to squeeze Sidney’s fingers. ‘Didn’t realize how much I wasn’t thinking until they turned the gas on me.’

‘Yes, well...’ Sidney thumbs the inside corners of his eyes hard enough to see spots. ‘It isn’t exactly _me_ you should be apologizing to, is it.’ Although he wants that apology; he wants to cradle it and make Geordie repeat it and turn it into a promise to _never_ do something like this again -- _as long as ye both shall live_ , his traitorous memory supplies. 

‘Isn’t it?’ Geordie’s hand relaxes but doesn’t move.

‘Cathy?’ Sidney pinches the bridge of his nose one last time and makes himself open his eyes. This day has passed with almost comic speed from sermon notes to calamity and he’s _damned_ if he’ll let it get any worse until he’s in the privacy of his own room. He can still breathe and his stomach isn’t cramping too badly just yet, so he knows he can push through for now. He’d noticed a half-empty pack of Geordie’s cigarettes in the car - he can use those to stave off the crash. Of course, the longer he forces himself to keep going, the worse things will be once he gets himself somewhere private. But he’ll worry about that when it actually happens.

‘Oh.’ Geordie nods, making the drip tube rattle against the rough cotton of the pillow with his movement, and Sidney winces. A moment of silence passes, then another, and Sidney is starting to listen for the nurse’s footsteps in the hall to throw him out and wondering if he can get them to let him use a phone to call Cathy when Geordie shifts and opens his eyes. ‘So what are they going to do with me?’

‘Depends on what the test results are. Even if they don’t make you stay here, you’re going to be on bed rest for two weeks.’

Geordie pulls a face. ‘Chance to catch up on me reading, I suppose.’

‘It would probably be better for you to stay here,’ Sidney points out. ‘The house is...hardly quiet.’

‘And I can hardly afford two weeks off work.’ Geordie shakes his head on the pillow. ‘Barely caught up from being off half the summer. A few days home’ll sort me out. It’ll be fine. I can spell Cathy with Davie a bit.’

‘Geordie--’ Sidney is cut off by the door opening.

He doesn’t drop Geordie’s hand fast - that would be conspicuous. He keeps his head bowed for a count of four, then puts Geordie’s hand down and looks up with his blandest smile. It’s a senior nurse. She gives Sidney a pleasant but dismissive nod as she picks up Geordie’s wrist. ‘Visiting hours from six to eight,’ she says. 

‘If Cathy can’t leave the children I’ll come back then,’ Sidney tells Geordie.

‘Can’t I go home?’ Geordie looks up at the nurse with a carefully calculated smile, the one he uses on a new barman when he thinks he can scrounge a free round. Sidney only barely keeps himself from rolling his eyes. ‘I’ll sit quiet, on me honor.’

‘That’s for Doctor to say. For now we’ll be keeping an eye on you.’ She studies her watch, then puts Geordie’s wrist down and takes his chart from the foot of the bed to make a note. ‘This way,’ she says to Sidney.

‘Wait,’ Geordie says, then coughs. It doesn’t double him over now - whatever’s in the drip must be helping - but it sounds terrible, deep and rattling. ‘Girls... home at three. Tell Cathy before...’

‘Of course. You rest,’ Sidney orders. ‘We’ll -- _she’ll_ be here before you know it.’

* * *

‘Oh, for...’ Cathy sits down heavily at the kitchen table and closes her eyes for a moment.

Sidney takes the other chair, then gets up again. The least he can do is make the tea that’s clearly waiting to be made.

‘You don’t have to--’ Cathy begins, then sighs and waves a hand at him, propping her head on her other hand. ‘Do as you like. I haven’t the strength to stop you.’

‘You’re not ill as well, are you?’

‘No, oh, no, I’m fine, just -- bloody tired.’ She sighs again, then takes a deep breath and drops her head in her hands. 

Sidney would worry that she’s about to burst into tears but Cathy isn’t like that: she isn’t panicking, she’s thinking. She’s silent as he pours hot water into the teapot, warms it until it’s uncomfortable against his palms, then dumps out the water, makes the tea, puts the pot and a cup in front of her. Then she sits back, looks at the pot, then up at him. ‘You’re not having any?’

‘I -- didn’t know if you’d want me to stay.’

‘Oh, for--’ Cathy bites off whatever she had been about to say and waves at the cupboard that holds the china. ‘Get yourself a cup. Milk’s in the icebox; there’s not much left.’

Sidney fixes himself a cup and sits down across the table from Cathy. She’s silent for another minute then says, ‘I should have realised how ill he was.’ She glances up at Sidney. ‘You must think I’m awful, letting him go out in that state.’

‘He said you were asleep when he left,’ Sidney offers. ‘I -- think he tried to put one over on you.’

‘Yes, well, he succeeded, didn’t he.’ Cathy sighs again and rubs at her forehead.

‘Is there -- anything I can do? I can’t -- I don’t know if I can help much with the girls, but perhaps I can stay with them while you go to the hospital?’ He wonders if Mrs M would quit on the spot if he brought them back to the vicarage for the evening.

Cathy looks at him for a long moment, then shakes her head. ‘It won’t work.’

Sidney blinks and sits back. ‘Oh. Well. I--’

‘No, no--’ She waves a hand at him again. ‘Not _you_ \-- _him_. If he’s got to have two weeks quiet, you staying with the kids for an evening won’t help much, will it?’

‘They might not let him out of hospital.’

Cathy snorts. ‘Oh, they’ll let him out, believe me. You’ve never seen him get ’round a ward sister. It’s quite the performance.’ She takes a sip of tea and goes on, ‘No, I’ll call Caro. She can take the girls -- they’d love two weeks with her. School’s nearly over anyway so they won’t miss much.’

Sidney nods. It’s on the tip of his tongue to offer to ring Canterbury College himself, but his mind runs ahead of pastoral habit just in time. It’s not a favor she’s asking, he reminds himself, not as if Caro were a neighbor -- or even the Aunt they call her. ‘I could collect them from school,’ he offers. ‘Since I’ve got the car. Run them down to the houseboat, stay until Caro gets there.’

Cathy nods wearily. ‘Thanks. That would... thank you.’ She lifts her teacup in both hands and takes a long swallow. 

‘And I can mind David while you’re at the hospital this evening.’

‘No, I’ll have Ruth next door take him. She won’t mind just one.’

Sidney nods and tries to picture the diary open on his desk. There’s not much on for the coming weekend - the seventh day after Easter is called Low Sunday for a reason - and in the next ten days there’s only the usual round of confirmation classes and parish meetings. But, he reminds himself, this is Cathy’s job, not his and she isn’t asking him for help. He takes a deep breath and banishes thoughts of cancelling the parish council meeting on Thursday and asking Leonard if he could both preach and give communion on Sunday.

He’s swallowing against the sting of not being able to help, not being able to go back to the hospital and fetch Geordie home when Cathy drains her cup, puts it back in the saucer with a firm _clink_ , and says, ‘When we get back, I’ll get Davie from Ruth and go down to Caro and you can get Geordie settled for the night. If you and I trade off, he can’t get away with too much.’

It’s so exactly opposite to what he had been thinking that he can’t make sense of the words for a moment. ‘What?’

Cathy reaches across the table and presses his hand. ‘Sidney, love. I don’t think you realise quite how transparent you are at times. To someone who knows what to look for.’ She smiles at him and squeezes his hand. ‘Of course you want to be here. You _should_ be here.’

It’s all wrong - Sidney ought to be comforting her, he knows - but the warm weight of her hand and the penetrating kindness in her tired eyes slide straight through his resistance. ‘You ring Caro,’ he says, when he can be sure of his voice, ‘and then I’ll ring the vicarage.’'

* * *

It all settles into place surprisingly easily. Ivy and Dora are wholly delighted with the surprise of Uncle Sidney in the car and the promise of an early holiday with Aunt Caro; Esme questions him only when the younger girls are busy picking crocuses on the riverbank and translates Sidney’s clumsy attempt at simplifications about doctors and special pictures into, ‘Oh, they wanted an x-ray to be sure the cold didn’t make his sore side worse.’ 

Back at the vicarage he finds Leonard already eating an early supper before taking the evening’s confirmation class, and Mrs M muttering at the stove about bone broth and well-cooked rice. Sidney’s rucksack is by the door, holding not only his pajamas and a change of clothes but also the biography of Jelly Roll Morton that he’s been reading before bed. And, of course, his prayer book, lest he should think Mrs M is getting soft.

As Cathy predicted, Geordie wrangles his way out of hospital before the end of visiting hours. She brings him home in a cab, along with what seems to Sidney like quite a portion of the hospital. Sulfa tablets to be given every four hours; codeine syrup every six; mimeographed sheets to record his temperature and a list of symptoms for which to call the doctor and another of those for which to ring for the ambulance. 

‘More of these than when I left,’ Geordie mutters as Sidney and Cathy guide him up the stairs.

‘More climbing, less talking,’ Sidney orders. ‘They were giving you oxygen a few hours ago.’

‘They like to show off their toys,’ Geordie chuckles, but it’s a breathless chuckle and after it wheezes to an end he’s obediently quiet until they get him up to the bedroom.

Cathy gives Geordie a little push towards their bed and turns away to the dresser for pajamas. Sidney starts to withdraw, to let Geordie change in privacy, but Geordie’s fingers tighten on his arm. 

‘The probationer tied me shoes,’ Geordie says. ‘Probably takes a university degree to get ‘em undone.’

Kneeling down to untie Geordie’s shoes feels as intimate as kissing him, and as wrong in front of Cathy. More so, perhaps - there’s nothing in marriage vows about kissing. But Geordie steadies himself with a hand on Sidney’s shoulder as he steps out of his trousers, and Cathy passes the pajamas to Sidney rather than taking his place to help Geordie into them.

When Sidney’d come to see Geordie at home after he’d been shot, he’d been sitting up in the bedroom armchair by the window, wearing crisp striped pajamas and a dressing gown with quilted lapels. These aren’t visiting-hours pajamas, they’re well-worn blue fading to gray, with fraying cuffs. 

Geordie balances himself with his fingers on the bedside table while Sidney buttons the pajama shirt as if doing it against time. By the time he’s gotten to the last button, the only color that had been in Geordie’s face is gone and he’s breathing shallowly and rapidly, as if he doesn’t want to bring on a cough.

Cathy has been busy with the bed, turning back the bedclothes and piling up pillows. She stacks the last one and leans a hotwater bottle against it. ‘There you go, then.’

Between the two of them, they get Geordie into the bed without the coughing fit coming on and Cathy puts another hotwater bottle against his side and pulls the blankets up to his chest. She pats them in place, then cups his face in her hand. ‘There. Now -- stay where you’re put.’

‘Yes, matron.’ Geordie folds his hands over his stomach and puts on an expression of entirely ridiculous innocence.

Cathy laughs and stands back. ‘Well, you’re Sidney’s problem 'til morning at any rate. I’m off down to the boat.’ 

Sidney moves out of her way as she goes towards the door; he’s starting to feel the sure signs of the crash he won’t be able to stop. Everything seems to be moving slightly too slowly; he feels as though it takes him a foolishly long period of time to step to the side.

Cathy glances up at him as she passes and stops, putting her hand on his arm. She hesitates, studying his face and Sidney has no idea what she might be seeing there. He can’t seem to summon up a reliable expression. Cathy makes as if to speak, then glances back to the bed and visibly changes her mind. She squeezes his arm and leans over as if not wanting Geordie to hear: ‘I’ll be back first thing. You know where everything is.’

* * *

Sidney doesn’t realise it’s dark outside until Cathy has taken her small bag of overnight things and gone to retrieve Davie from next door and he’s standing at the stove waiting for broth to heat so Geordie can have something to wash the second dose of sulfa tablets down. 

The kitchen is very quiet; he can hear the gas hissing under the saucepan and, faintly, the Home Service on Ruth’s wireless next door. He’s never known the Keatings’ house to be this still, except when he and Geordie were alone at Christmas. He shakes his head firmly; Christmas is not something he needs to think about right now. 

Despite Cathy’s assurances, her firm assumption -- that because he _wants_ to be here this is where he _should_ be -- he’s still not entirely sure it’s right. He hasn’t felt uncomfortable in this house for months now, but tonight he feels as though he’s waiting for someone to tap him on the shoulder and send him home. If nothing else, he’s fairly sure that what little training he’d received in ‘care for the sick’ hadn’t meant anything like this. He doesn’t remember any mention of the horrible tremor in his chest that has him wanting to run up the stairs every time Geordie coughs to make sure he’s still breathing.

When the broth is steaming gently he pours it into a heavy mug and carries it upstairs, the Morton biography tucked under his arm. 

Geordie has his eyes closed when Sidney elbows the door open and for a minute he hesitates -- if Geordie’s fallen asleep, then sleep is definitely more important than food, but the instructions about the medication--

‘I’m not asleep,’ Geordie says clearly without moving and blinks his eyes open. ‘Just resting like you told me.’ He folds his hands on top of the comforter and puts on an innocent expression that wouldn’t fool an infant. ‘Like a good lad.’

Sidney snorts and sits on the edge of the mattress, holding out the mug. ‘Lying’s a sin, you know.’

‘Yeah--’ Geordie takes the mug carefully in both hands and breathes in the steam for a minute. ‘--but one of the lesser ones, isn’t it?’ He glances up at Sidney with a half-grin. ‘Given what we’ve gotten up to, it barely counts.’

‘Are you supposed to be making that kind of joke in your condition?’ Sidney asks blandly, getting up and going around the bed to the armchair by the window. He gives the cushions a token smack by way of fluffing and then stands aimlessly, looking at the folds in the curtain and the darkness in the garden beyond the window glass. 

He isn’t sure he wants to sleep at all; he’s well-aware that he hasn’t actually stopped to _think_ about what happened today, just shoved it into a back corner of his mind where it won’t get in his way. It won’t stay there forever. 

He blinks and realises he’s still standing, his hand on the back of the chair, staring at the curtain as though waiting for it to do something fascinating. He turns around and perches on the arm of the chair, watching Geordie sip at the broth.

‘D’you have some proper food?’ Geordie asks. ‘Not that this isn’t delicious but if you’re being trusted to chew you should...’ A cough catches him. ‘...make the most...’ He clears his throat and drinks more. ‘Make the most of it,’ he finishes, a little breathlessly.

‘I had something earlier.’

‘What?’

‘...fish and chips. Take your tablets.’

‘Lying’s a sin,’ Geordie repeats, though he obediently swallows the chalky little pills.

‘Mrs M made something. I don’t... really remember, but she let me out of the house so I must have eaten it.’ Sidney leans over for the alarm clock and sets it for four hours. 

‘I’m sorry, Sidney,’ Geordie says. He stares down into his mug. ‘Thank you. For... taking me in. Before I was a stretcher case.’

‘Yes. Of course,’ Sidney agrees when he hears Geordie’s voice stop. He’s looking at the alarm clock; the numbers don’t seem to make any _sense_. He’s sure they’re supposed to convey something to him. The alarm clock rattles slightly and he puts it down quickly before the tremor in his hand can get any more obvious. 

‘Sidney?’

‘Did you take your pills?’ Sidney pulls his eyes away from the clock and looks back at Geordie.

‘You watched me -- are you all right?’

‘I’m not the patient here.’ Sidney pinches at the bridge of his nose, abruptly aware that whatever it was Mrs M had gotten him to eat is sitting uneasily in his stomach. He can feel his pulse in his throat and it’s choking him. ‘And you shouldn’t be apologizing to me.’

‘I -- wasn’t apologizing. Sidney--’ Geordie sets down the mug and makes to lean forward.

‘Don’t!’ Sidney’s on his feet before he thinks, pressing Geordie’s shoulder back against the pillows. ‘For God’s sake, don’t make it any worse!’ Geordie catches his wrist but Sidney steps back, swallowing hard against a rush of bile and forcing himself _not_ to look at his hands for blood that isn’t there. ‘Finish that broth. I -- I’ll be -- back in a minute.’

* * *

The toilet’s only across the hall, but Sidney closes the door and turns the taps on. And he’s good at being quiet, even in the awful moments between the first bout and the second when he’s lightheaded and sweating and just wants it to be over. Afterwards he washes his hands and his face in cold water until they’re pink and stinging and carefully avoids looking at himself in the mirror. 

He rummages in the medicine cabinet as if he doesn’t know Cathy’d laid out the thermometer and aspirin and rubbing alcohol on the bedroom dresser, then stands in the hall for a long moment. Maybe Geordie’s asleep. Maybe he’ll sleep all night, dropping straight back off after Sidney wakes him to swallow his medicine. 

In the bedroom Geordie coughs, then sighs, not sleepily. 

Sidney takes a deep breath and goes back in. ‘Forgot Cathy got this lot ready before she went to collect you,’ he says, going straight to the dresser. ‘Temperature now.’

Geordie allows his temperature to be taken and marked down in silence and Sidney avoids meeting his eyes.

‘Y’know what a chest infection doesn’t do?’ Geordie asks conversationally as Sidney slips the thermometer back into the alcohol-filled case.

‘Make you behave any more sensibly?’

‘Make you deaf.’ 

‘Ah.’ Sidney drops the thermometer back on the bedside table and runs his hands back through his hair. ‘Sorry.’

Geordie reaches out and catches Sidney’s wrist again and this time Sidney lets him. ‘You’ve been staving that off for hours, haven’t you. Come on, Sit down before you fall down. You look worse than I do.’

Sidney sits on the edge of the bed and drops his head in his free hand. ‘That’s not possible.’

Geordie draws his thumb over the back of Sidney’s hand. ‘What can I do, man?’ he asks softly.

Sidney covers his eyes. When Geordie was shot, Mrs M had asked that question, but before that... how long has it been since someone asked? He opens his mouth to say he doesn’t know, but a sob comes out instead.

‘Come here,’ Geordie urges, tugging at his hand. ‘Look, if I’m not allowed to sit up you’ve got to come to me, so come, already.’

‘Too heavy on your chest.’ Sidney pushes the words through his painfully tight throat.

‘Nothing wrong with me shoulder.’

Sidney keeps protesting but somehow Geordie manages to maneuver him around the side of the bed, into the empty space, and pull him tight up against his side. Sidney tries to support as much of his own weight as he can, pressing one palm flat on the mattress between them, but Geordie sniffs at him -- then sneezes -- and reaches down to take his hand, threading their fingers together over his own ribs. 

‘There. See? Not as fragile as I look, am I-- Christ, sorry, shouldn’t’ve said that.’ Geordie holds tight to Sidney’s hand as he reflexively tries to draw it away. ‘Just -- stay where you are, all right?’

‘I _can’t_ , Geordie -- you’re too sick -- and this is _your_ bed--’ His and Cathy’s and this isn’t the time or the place for that fact to be worrying him, but it is, and he needs Geordie to say the words.

‘I _know_ it’s my bloody bed, that’s why I’ve got you in it.’

Silence falls for a moment or two while Sidney tries to get some semblance of control back, starting with slowing his breathing until he sounds -- and feels -- less like he’s been running for his life. Geordie combs his fingers through Sidney’s hair. ‘Better than the hot water bottle, you are. And look: no way I can do anything daft with you right here, is there? Shh, all right, now,’ he murmurs when Sidney’s breath hitches. 

Under the warm flannel pajamas Geordie smells like hospital - ether and carbolic and starch - but the fabric, worn though it may be, smells like the sun-warm grass in the back garden where Cathy hung them to dry. Sidney lets himself bury his face in Geordie’s shoulder, lets himself breathe deep and notice that there’s no smell of blood. ‘In the war,’ he says, keeping his head down. ‘You must have seen. Sometimes. A man you thought was fine, who you thought had come through... hadn’t.’

‘Yeah.’ Geordie murmurs it against the crown of Sidney's head.

‘When I found you. In the factory. Still standing.’

His fingers tighten on Sidney’s. ‘Yeah.’

‘And then you fell...’

Geordie nuzzles against him and they lie quiet for a long moment. ‘Can I say I’m sorry now?’ Geordie asks, very softly.

Sidney takes another deep breath and makes himself pull back, supporting himself on his elbow. ‘I think you’re supposed to be asleep.’

Geordie shrugs. ‘Lying around doesn’t really take it out of you that much.’ He untangles their fingers and taps Sidney’s chin until Sidney looks up at him. ‘I _am_ sorry.’

Sidney nods, not willing to trust his voice and unsure what he’d say anyway. He begins to edge backwards off the bed.

‘Hey, hey, where’re you going?’ 

‘I’ll be back in four hours with your pills,’ Sidney says, tugging his hopelessly crumpled shirt straight.

Geordie scowls at him and pats the now-rumpled blankets on the empty side of the bed. ‘And you’re going to what? Bed down in the chair? On the settee? In Davie’s cot? Don’t be a fool, man.’ 

Sidney hesitates -- he _wants_ to return to Geordie’s side, wants to so badly it feels like something tugging in his chest.

Geordie narrows his eyes. ‘You didn’t have this problem over Christmas. So what’s the difference?’

Sidney gestures helplessly, his hands falling back against his thighs. ‘You’re -- ill, you shouldn’t -- _I_ shouldn’t--’ He can’t explain it, can’t really even explain it to himself, why it had been all right then and is all wrong now _._ Christmas -- that had been like an unexpected day out of school; none of the normal rules applied. This is...this is ordinary, every day, mundane: no longer a crisis with canisters of oxygen or intravenous lines, but a domestic illness with handkerchiefs and mugs of broth and frayed pajamas and he doesn’t know where his place _is_ in that. Whatever it is, it’s different than it had been a year ago when he’d held Cathy as baby David coughed and whooped, and then she’d sat him down in the front room and given him tea in a cup he now knows was from the company set she keeps on a high shelf in the kitchen. It’s different than when Sidney himself had been laid up with flu during Advent and Geordie had come to see him. 

_Isn’t everything our business?_ Sidney had asked Leonard when he questioned Sidney’s involvement in police investigations, and Leonard had agreed that was a clergyman’s lot. But a priest’s business with illness was to come in bringing a breath of fresh air, armored in his collar and armed with a prayerbook, to listen and sympathize and comfort for an hour, and to go. Not to lie down with the patient. 

‘Do you know Cathy gets flu at least once a year?’ Geordie asks and Sidney blinks. 

‘...no?’

‘D’you know where I sleep then?’

‘No? Geordie--’

‘Across the hall -- in with Davie, now. So the kids don’t disturb Cath in the night, of course.’ Geordie flips back the comforter and sits back, clearly allowing Sidney room to make the last decision. ‘Not anything to do with the senior member of Shrewsbury College, Oxford who comes racing in like the house is on fire.’ He lets the words sink in for a minute, then adds, ‘I’d hate to have to say King's, Cambridge let the side down.’

Sidney holds out for another few seconds, then throws up his hands and starts unbuttoning his shirt. He takes it to the armchair, toes off his shoes, then lets his belt and trousers join his shirt in a heap on the seat. He brings the alarm clock over to... his... side of the bed and sits down on the edge to peel off his socks. ‘I don’t know why I’d think that was a threat,’ he says to the threadbare carpet. ‘Who would you tell?’

‘Well, the Oxford graduate, for one.’ Geordie lets out a raspy sigh when Sidney slides under the bedclothes. ‘Thank you.’ He shifts a fraction closer. ‘They said. I’m not particularly catching. That someone in _normal_ health isn’t likely to get ill off me.’

‘That isn’t what I...’

‘I know. But you can tell Mrs M when she frets at you about wearing yourself out nursing.’ Geordie trails a finger along Sidney’s collarbone. ‘Have to get you some things to keep here,’ he says. ‘Dressing gown, at least, for when we haven’t the whole place to ourselves.’

Sidney laughs, although he knows Geordie’s probably perfectly serious. His ribs and stomach protest at being asked to laugh so soon after being sick, but the warmth of Geordie’s body soothes the ache. Sidney’s eyelids droop. He fumbles one hand out from under the blankets and tries to tap Geordie on the chest; judging from Geordie’s laugh, he hits somewhere above the navel. ‘You do anything like this again and -- and I’ll --’

‘What?’ Geordie’s hand covers his. ‘You’ll do what?’

Sidney shakes his head against Geordie’s shoulder. ‘I’m -- not sure yet.’ He lets his eyes fall shut and his head go heavy, the familiar ridge of Geordie’s collarbone digging into his cheek. ‘But I’ll think of something and dressing gowns will _not_ be involved.’


	2. Convalescence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is entirely unbeta'd and was "written" (in my head) over the course of my walk home. Please take it for precisely what it is!

'Sidney.'

'No.'

Silence.

'Sidney.'

'Christ, you're worse than Dora! _No._ '

'I am not worse than a five-year-old, believe me.'

'Well, you're getting there. And when you ask the same question again in two minutes, the answer will _still_ be no.'

'It's been ten days!'

'And it's going to be twenty-one. There aren't even any in the house.'

'That's a lie; I can smell 'em on you.'

'That's from when I was walking here. The pack's on my desk at home.'

'This is ridiculous -- I can sit up, I can--'

'And when you can walk down the shops on your own, you're perfectly welcome to get as many as you like. Until then -- _no.'_

 _'Fine._ Then can you at least come over here?'

'You won't get anything out of my pockets.'

'Bugger your pockets -- it's the smell off your shirt I want.'

'...that's the worst line you've ever come up with.'

'Don't make me come up with a worse one.'

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from [_The Two Gentlemen of Verona_](http://www.bartleby.com/70/1212.html).
> 
> And all the thanks and chocolate to our beta, [Elizajane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane), who very patiently helped us figure out which words needed to go away.


End file.
